


The Holy Oak

by asilentherald



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Community: tavern_tales, Gen, Horror, Magic, Tavern Tales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asilentherald/pseuds/asilentherald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He felt a jarring shift in the air and spun around just in time to see the knots of the great tree unfurl, the lines of bark straighten out and form a gaping maw. Merlin tensed, a flicker of a second from bolting away – but it was too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Holy Oak

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tavern Tales' October theme, Fairies, Spells, Dark Nights. Inspired by MZB's Mists of Avalon (I just can't get that book out of my head, guys).

Merlin heard a woman’s laughter – _familiar_ laughter – not far from where he sat under a tall oak tree. Dead leaves crunched under his boots as he got to his feet and peered around. He didn’t see anyone, but he heard rustling in the underbrush. The hair on the back of his neck stood up straight, and it wasn’t just from the cold wind on a summer night.

His magic prickled in the palm of his hand and sweat started to form on his brow. He wiped his overgrown hair off his forehead and took a step away from the tree.

He felt a jarring _shift_ in the air and spun around just in time to see the knots of the great tree unfurl, the lines of bark straighten out and form a gaping maw. Merlin tensed, a flicker of a second from bolting away – but it was too late.

He felt nothing but putrid darkness on his skin, an earthy smell filling his nostrils. He felt only the wood around him. Merlin tried to turn, but the space seemed to close in and press his shoulder blades together. Jagged pieces of wood dug between his ribs until his breathing became shallow. Sweat dripped between his eyes and along the crease of his nose. He licked the salty water off the top of his lip and tasted blood.

“Magic,” he muttered. “ _Magic.”_

Vines around his arms immobilized his body; something about the darkness immobilized his magic.

The earth revolted beneath his feet – and dropped out beneath him. He slid down the rough wood, splinters digging into him at every angle, until he hung from those spiny vines by the wrist.

Eventually, the vines snapped under his weight, the sound like shattering glass in the total silence, and Merlin fell.

The next thing he realized, he was kneeling on the muddy ground. It hadn’t rained in Camelot for days. Looking around the clearing, Merlin found he didn’t recognize the mountains beyond the pines or the way the sun was disappearing behind them.

He was bound at the wrists again, only this time with rope. Merlin sought his magic, a surge of energy burning in his blood – but it would not come. He felt like half his body couldn’t breathe without it.

Darkness fell like a heavy cloak over him. Hooded figures with bright orange torches lined the clearing. Instantly he thought of the women of the Triple Goddess, their cold dark cave, the eerie synchronicity that bespoke a higher power. They felt foreign and familiar at once. His magic recognized their magic and their mutual ties to the earth, to Albion, but Merlin instantly felt _other_ – just as he felt now.

“What do you want with me?” he shouted. His voice came out like a rasp.

One hooded figure stepped into the clearing. He instantly recognized her sway and posture.

“Morgana,” Merlin growled.

“Emrys,” she said, only her red lips visible to Merlin, the rest of her face hidden by the low hanging hood. She smiled. The sky above darkened; Merlin looked up. Purplish clouds rolled in from all directions and gathered over his head.

He fought for his magic again, but it seemed to slip further and further out of reach.

“Your powers are gone, Emrys. You’re a traitor to magic, to the land, to Albion – you chose the wrong side,” she said, her smile gone, “and now you’ll face Albion’s judgment.”

The hooded figures on the rim of the clearing faded away. Merlin looked from wrist to wrist, looking for some weak spot on the ropes to pull at, but they might as well have been made of iron. Morgana turned around and walked back toward the forest with a faint glow about her shoulders. Merlin caught a glimpse of the people in the shadows, their faces dark and their eyes bright as they watched Morgana with reverence.

_Morgaine of the faeries._

_Morgana le Fay._

He’d heard it before, though he’d never thought twice about it. It seemed impossible, faeries being so far removed from the natural world, the Sidhe in Avalon, forest spirits hiding between layers of wood and earth. Yet she looked natural among them, her power like a shivering silver sheath across her shoulders.

The ground shook beneath his knees. The air grew frigid and fierce. Merlin shook in the cold, or perhaps from fear.

He looked at his retreating audience and realized it for what it was: an execution.

Lightning flashed overhead. Merlin shut his eyes at the sound of a sword being unsheathed. He could feel Morgana stalking back toward him. There was nowhere to turn but forward, head-on. His thoughts, his racing thoughts and racing heart, went straight to Arthur and how easily Morgana would be able to kill him now. Arthur, sleeping beside Gwen back in Camelot, entirely unaware of his manservant leaving in the dead of night to practice a little magic.

Perhaps he’d cast the wrong spell, aggravated the wrong tendril of magic in the earth.

His whole body shook with tension and he let out a quiet impulsive cry.

Or perhaps—

The sword cut open the air over his head, above his shoulder, next to his neck as the air set ablaze with lightning and a haze of _pain_ and _burning_ overtook every other sensation in his body and beyond, though he could feel their eyes watching him fall apart and the earth crack beneath him, the wood of the oak gathering to catch every piece of Merlin’s body as he dismantled on Albion’s blooded altar—

Then there was silence, and the wet grass pressed against his cheek. He heard no sound, tasted no blood, smelled none of the vomit that fell from Morgana’s mouth beside his face. But he saw her kneel beside him and turn his face toward him. She flinched when he blinked and stared. Revulsion plainer than victory, she stepped away, wiping her hands on her robes.

The blood under her nails, curved like a smile, was the last thing Merlin saw. Then the sky closed in and heavy darkness pressed his eyes shut like gentle fingers.


End file.
